


as the morning steals upon the night

by could-have-beens (uncorrectgrammar)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Canon Compliant, F/M, Getting Back Together, Missing Scene, Post-Battle of Hogwarts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-03
Updated: 2020-05-03
Packaged: 2021-03-02 01:34:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23986870
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/uncorrectgrammar/pseuds/could-have-beens
Summary: The morning after the Battle of Hogwarts, Harry gets up and makes toast.
Relationships: Harry Potter/Ginny Weasley
Comments: 30
Kudos: 144





	as the morning steals upon the night

**Author's Note:**

  * For [NaruKoibito](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NaruKoibito/gifts).



_The charm dissolves apace,_

_And as the morning steals upon the night,_

_Melting the darkness, so their rising senses_

_Begin to chase the ignorant fumes that mantle_

_Their clearer reason._

— William Shakespeare, _The Tempest_

* * *

The morning after the Battle of Hogwarts, Harry gets up and makes toast.

Technically, it isn't actually morning yet, and he's fairly sure there are a few scant hours to go before sunrise. He should be back in the Gryffindor dormitories, sleeping the day away — God knows he needs it. His limbs feel heavy, every bone in his body too tired to move — he isn't even sure if it's sunk in yet, that he's still here, standing and breathing.

But he knows he won't have any time for that, just standing and breathing, when the rest of the castle wakes. There's much to do, now that the war is over, and he isn't even sure there'll be time to celebrate. Hogwarts itself needs to be rebuilt, and the escaped Death Eaters still need to be captured, and there are friends and allies to bury —

No. Not yet.

He doesn't want to think about that yet.

As he heats a kettle to make tea, he vaguely wonders where the house-elves have gone. The kitchens are empty, save for him, and he's glad for it. He hopes they're resting, the elves, because he doesn't doubt they'll be back to work when the sun is up, insisting on serving breakfast to the survivors.

Survivors. He doesn't even know who those people are yet, the final count of those who lived and those who didn't. He's not sure he's ready to know.

When he burns the toast, he thinks maybe he ought to head back up to Gryffindor Tower, early breakfast be damned. Obviously he's too sluggish, too slow and droopy-eyed to actually get anything done — can't even make a decent toast because he's too busy worrying and thinking and —

The kitchen door swings open and light footsteps pad over the stone floor.

It's Ginny, shoulders slumped with the same bone-deep weariness he feels. When she looks up and meets his eyes, silence pervades the room, sucking the air out from between them. For all the sleepiness that clouded his thoughts minutes ago, Harry feels oddly awake. Stuck to this one place, to the spot of ground upon which she stands.

There are certain people for whom time itself stops, a few stars whose brightness can hold universes of their own. There are certain people who, through one look, can make you feel like you're free falling, plummeting into an endless expanse.

Looking at her now, Harry wonders how he could have forgotten. Even in the dim light of the room, even with the dark circles under her eyes and her uncombed hair, he wonders how he could have ever given her up. It wouldn't have felt like a victory, if he never got the chance to see her again.

And then he drops his plate. The sound echoes loudly, shattering the quiet, and just like that the moment fractures between them.

The weariness is gone as Ginny marches towards him, glaring fiercely.

"Harry James Potter," she says. "Never do that again."

He blinks. "Er — do what?"

"Die."

"Sorry," he says without thinking, "but that's not something I can do, Gin."

The nickname slips right off his tongue before he can stop it. He wants to apologize for it, because it's very clearly over, and what on earth is he still doing, gawking at her like this, and he really should —

"Let me rephrase," she says, her voice hardly a whisper. "Never go to your death without saying goodbye. Again."

It knocks the wind right out of him, the guilt a hollow, sinking pit in his stomach.

"You didn't say goodbye, Harry. Not even to Ron or Hermione or —" she stops and looks down, her mouth suddenly twisting, as if she's tasted something bitter. "You just left."

"I couldn't," he chokes out before he loses the nerve. "If I did, I — I don't think I could've done it . . . I couldn't. . . ."

Her eyes soften, just a little, and again he can't stop himself from staring. "I wouldn't have asked you to stay."

Her voice lingers in the air until all he really wants to do is reach out and touch her hand _._ He wants to hug her and feel the warm, calming safety of her embrace. He wants to kiss her again. And because he wants to kiss her, he doesn't reach out at all.

Moments like this, he _knows_ he loves her, and he can't believe he left without ever saying it aloud, without even letting her know.

"I know," he says quietly. "I wanted to, though. It would have been harder if I did."

"You're a selfish prat, Harry." It sounds like a joke, a sarcastic, wry twist to her tone, but then her bottom lip trembles, tears glistening against her eyelashes. "A selfish, selfless prat."

Ginny pulls him into a hug, and his shoulders tense before he relaxes in her embrace. Harry knows better than to argue with her about semantics, and with her body soft against his, he feels a new awareness settle over him, extending to his fingers and toes. He has dreamed of this moment for so long, this and other moments like it. He wants to press his cheek against hers to feel more of her warmth. He wants to feel the pressure of her mouth against his own. He wants to whisper that she's the most radiant person he's ever known.

There are so many things Harry wants, but they can all be distilled down to one person.

"Don't do that again, all right?" she says as she pulls away, wiping at a tear that spills down her cheek.

Harry swallows around the lump in his throat. He hates watching Ginny cry, and it's even worse knowing it's his fault. All he has ever wanted to do is make her happy, and he's spent so much time failing spectacularly.

"Listen, about that — dying, I mean, I —" he tries to say, but she looks away and the words crumble before he can formulate them into a coherent statement.

"You should be resting," she murmurs. "You literally died, Harry. You deserve to rest more than anyone —"

"I thought of you," he finally blurts out, instead of having the words die in his throat. "Before I died, you were — you were the last thing I thought of. I reckon it would still be you, the next time."

Ginny looks at him, really looks at him, and she laughs. The sound of it makes him feel lighter and warmer than he has in months.

"That better not be for a long, long time," she says, her eyes every bit as bright and blazing as he remembers. "Let's not talk about the end, all right?"

"What do you want to talk about?"

"Living in the middle."

A little glow of hope trickles out from his chest and laces his veins. "You and me?"

"Of course, you and me," she says, a smile slowly blossoming across her face. "Who else?"

"I didn't think you'd still — I don't expect you to —"

Her hands are behind his neck, softly pulling him down, closer to her lips. For a moment, it feels like he's frozen in place, shock coursing through his veins, adrenaline rising.

And then she kisses him, and everything about the last few months — Voldemort and horcruxes and the war — fades away until all that's left is Ginny and her blazing look, the warmth that unfurls in his chest when she smiles as they pull away, and the fire burning behind her eyes when they catch his.

With unblinking stares and their foreheads pressed together, Harry takes her hand and laces her fingers through his. Ginny gives him a little squeeze and lifts their intertwined hands to her lips.

Across the back of his knuckles, she whispers, "I reckon you'd be my last thought too."


End file.
